


Black sky, blue world, green eyes

by tco



Series: All blessings counted, no countings blessed [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Genderbending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Post-Episode: s06e22 The Man Who Knew Too Much, Psychological Horror, Sexual Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, and the little prince, but not ABO, deancentric, emotionally complicated verging on unrequited, endless battle for agency, kind of mpreg, references to greek mythology and christianity, season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-05-01 19:39:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14527743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: Sentiments are harder to kill than cockroaches. Than Dean. Than God.This is the Bible 3.0 - written by fingers, on water: Castiel makes laws and worlds from atop of his mountain. Dean puts his best armor on, cuts both ears off, and keeps casting stones. And it's very very cold when they meet in their own little Gethsemane.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my heart goes to my best best best friend and biggest help in this quest, @babybluecas <3  
> Additional thanks to you for reminding me where the aliens are :D
> 
>  
> 
> Title taken from "Black sky" by Shakespeare's sister.  
> (you should totally listen to the whole "Hormonally yours" album, just sayin)
> 
> Apologies for doing the wip thing again (which i hate). Health is a bitch, job is a motherfucker, and writing is hard. Whole trifecta.

 

 

_"Then my sunset?" the little prince reminded him: for he never forgot a question once he had asked it._

_"You shall have your sunset. I shall command it. But, according to my science of government, I shall wait until conditions are favorable."_

_"When will that be?" inquired the little prince._

_"Hum! Hum!" replied the king; and before saying anything else he consulted a bulky almanac. "Hum! Hum! That will be about--about--that will be this evening about twenty minutes to eight. And you will see how well I am obeyed!"_

_The little prince yawned. He was regretting his lost sunset. And then, too, he was already beginning to be a little bored._

_"I have nothing more to do here," he said to the king. "So I shall set out on my way again."_

_"Do not go," said the king, who was very proud of having a subject. "Do not go. I will make you a Minister!"_

_"Minister of what?"_

_"Minister of--of Justice!"_

_"But there is nobody here to judge!"_

( _The Little Prince,_ Antoine de Saint Exupery)

 

~~~~~~*~~~~~~

**I**

He isn't really sure how he managed to do this, but he somehow stares at the goddamn can in equal parts with infuriation and resignation. Even though he has a lot of time to try to decide whether Castiel is being half deaf, that culturally illiterate, or just a full time dick, he doesn't think he wants to.

Only side note that comes to mind whether Dean wants it there or nah (and yeah, nah) is that as a token of Castiel’s love Dr Fucker right there makes perfect sense, seeing as that love is fake as crap and none of the sugar in it even tastes good.

Fury tells him he should let the anger hang around and grow. Dean guesses it isn't worth the effort. He's got enough of fury to spare on many both bigger and simply pettier things. And he's got just enough of resignation to fuck the can drama to hell and put it away into the Kentucky-sized folder of Stupidly Insane Shit That Castiel Does Just Because He Thinks He Can.

He needs a shorter name for that.

Kentucky-sized folder of fuck? Or just Kenfucky for short?

Nevermind, but probably yeah.

 

He turns the affronting gift in his hand, over and over, trying to figure out what to do with it, if anything, and what driving his options safely can possibly entail before he crosses an invisible line and gets penalty time-out in some abstract part-hell again. And that has chances of happening the same size as cold happening in Siberia. Or whatever it is now.

Well, there’s shit he needs to investigate soon one way or another, so he’ll deal with that bridge once it hits him in the face. For now, he opens the stupid can. He kinda made a promise, after all.

Although he didn’t promise that, exactly.

“Okay, kid,” he starts, firm. “This isn’t what I voted for and it ain’t the real deal, but since your father is entirely made of throbbing assholes, we’re gonna treat us with this for now.” He stares at the forlorn slice of unknown pie with pity. “Let’s at least hope the pie isn’t secretly cake.”

 _Let’s hope!_ It tells him, excited. _Why is cake bad?_

Dean is irrationally amused that the little monster doesn’t even question why would its father be made of throbbing buttholes. Almost as if it went without saying. As if the kid already knew well enough that Castiel, ruler of the universe, in fact is. This is a good start.

“Too much sugar,” he comments. “Nine times out of ten it’s inedible since you can’t even taste any flavors outside of the sweet. Pie was made for savoring. Cake’s been unearthed from hell to add more visual drama to a wedding, I guess.”

_A Wedding?_

“Two people, usually loving each other and visual drama very much, swearing to stay together. It’s called getting married,” Dean says, not liking where this is headed. He liked the food questions better. “Hilarity ensues. Probably followed by divorce. It’s when they take that back.”

_Did you marry daddy?_

Knew it.

“He married me, technically.”

_Does he love you very much, Mommy?_

Dean likes to think he used to. To be honest, fuck knows.

“Now he loves visual drama more,” he remarks and he’s sure he sounds like a whiny grandma right now.

The ‘back in my day we were learning to sow and accidentally domesticating horses, now all y’all have cars and they don’t even shit’ kind of way. And if he says ‘visual drama’ again he will punch himself. How many dumb t-shirts can his mouth make, for fuck’s sake. But he just doesn’t know what to say anymore.

He, uh, he isn’t being all that honest.

 _Oh_ \- Dean can hear the fucking pout here - _Do you love daddy?_

Used to. Now? Same fuck, same knowledge.

“I’m just stupidly sentimental.”

 _Oh_ , it says, sad and pointed.

Yeah, he thinks so too. Like, yeah, he loved this person-ish angel guy and he loved Lisa but now he lost both because the person wrapper fell off and it turned out to be like mistaking a blue slushie with windex because a jealous, thirsty assface man-eating God is so not what he fell for and yet he can’t puke it out clean since his insides are scorched at this point, but, you know, oh. What else is there to say.

_Was there cake?_

Except of, maybe, clarifying whether there was cake.

“There was pie.”

 _You like pie, Mommy!_ It points out with joy. _Daddy loves you, Mommy!_

“It doesn’t work like that, kiddo.”

_Then how?_

“Not like that,” Dean says tiredly, taking a sip of his so not good Dr Pepper and wishing it was whiskey.

Thinking about how it does actually work - as close as he got to how it should, anyway - Lisa steps into his mind again with her always dirty sneakers, secret passion for crappy takeout, a witty smile and sweetly scented hands he grew so fond of even though the flower-candy combo ate like fire at his nostrils at first; and how its tail lingered in a room after she left. He learned every single note of it, down to the last hour. The memory of her takes a seat on his chest, legs crossed and shoes all in mud, and hurts.

And then there’s-

Oh, fuck no. Dean’s so not doing this.

…Dean’s head is so doing this.

And then there’s, even more against his will, a reminiscence of hope-bringing weight on his shoulder, a flash of tan that would make his unease cool down, his heart ache a little less, once. The Cas he made up inside his head like an ultra neurotic Sylvia Plath or some shit and inexcusably fooled himself with the concept of having.

That Cas, he does what he’d always do. Stands as if limbs were an inconvenience he wasn’t sure where to put away and stares at Dean like he doesn’t quite _get it_.

Nice times, that. Just go away, you goddamn fuck. Be gone, warm eyes. Be gone, camaraderie of easily brushing shoulder. Be gone, the softest way of fingertips against his forehead, always.

He doesn’t go.

Dean frowns like he’s being force-fed with lemons. But that scares neither away.

_Oh._

Aside of the fucking baby.

It’s getting into t-shirt making too, huh? Family picture: Mother-slash-Father in a “Why” shirt, holding a rugrat wearing “Oh” rompers. Father Two-Slash-Thing just Being A Bitch And Ruining Everything This Time With That Fucking Face Suggesting He Understands And Knows and Owns Everything (also too long; this one Dean code-names Fucklahoma).

Oh, God. He gulps down more just to wash that view away, along with those two already haunting him. Nope, would have to be whiskey. This isn’t working. It’s still there, eating out his eyelids. Fuck fucking fuck.

_Then can you devorce, Mommy?_

Dean sighs. Yeah, he’d love to.

“I don’t know, go ask your father,” he mutters. Wait, no. “Actually, change of plans. If you can reach him, very much don’t. He can’t know we talk.” Now a non-terrifying reason would be good. “Thinks he knows everything. Let’s have him miss out on something for once.”

It doesn’t say anything, but he can feel how uncomfortable it feels.

“Time to see if you’re more after me,” or more after Fucklahoma, Dean hopes not. “Pie time, squirt-o!” he announces and gets up to take the forlorn plate while it still looks fresh enough.

Without sitting back down, Dean digs in, and as soon as his mouth connects with his brain, he almost fucking chokes. And then he yells. Like full on offended bitch yells.

“Son of a bitch!”

Pomegranate filling. Of all things.

It hits him with full power that he shouldn’t be nicely sitting on his ass and making degustations and power point presentations about life for a little hybrid that was forcefully fucked into him. Bobby told him something is up. Suddenly the dining room had been sealed. Just as suddenly Castiel is gone - and while it’s his trademark move since forever and a half - he shouldn’t be treating it as the norm anymore. The norm now should be, for all fucks’ sake, trying to comprehend and remember that Castiel should be hunted down before he lays eggs. Well, more eggs. This room holds no answers to that problem. It never did. Dean needs to move instead of being the sixteenth plant on this stupid sofa. He needs to make precautions.

Seems like it’s time to visit Castiel’s office. He’s been purposely avoiding it as it makes his bones screech and his brain churn because it’s his personal ground zero of all horrors in terms of this particular prison. But he shouldn’t be babying himself either. If anything flashes at him, he’ll swallow it again. He’s swallowed forty years of hell. He’ll swallow day forty one as well.

He saunters down, mindful not to gain too much attention. Isn’t all that hard since a) he’s the bitch whose very existence ended up putting into this house everyone that’s currently living in it and b) from an outsider’s point of view he’s the thing that seems to be periodically: screaming, then dropping dead, then respawning at some point later.

Dean’s being much more avoided by people than he’s actively avoiding them. Kinda sad. Kinda lonely. Kinda unsurprising.

Once he’s fronting the door, he can’t help but stare at it in growing unease with a side of fear. Tastes better than the disappointment did back then, anyway. Dean pushes the door open.

The meticulous cleanliness he associated with it is gone now. And that’s kind of an understatement. It’s a bigger mess than Sam’s face was during his puberty. Especially around the fucking desk. Not only rightfully does it make his skin crawl as it has his memories crawling upwards, too, but his head starts literally pounding for some reason. So bad it blurs the resurfacing images. Doesn’t help much. They’re not just repeating vaguely in his head. They’re carved into his heart, into the undersides of his ribs, into every inch of his body. Even this body. Every picture. Every ugly sound that ran with them.

The one where Dean walked in, all pampered, throat shining with gold, and Castiel only looked up from his shit - writing the declaration of surrender, of course, and knowing it now makes it even worse - as Dean made sure the door closed shut behind him. The noise of it loops, and loops, and loops.

The one where, sans words, sans a sign of any context, Dean tried to take one for the team and dove directly onto Castiel’s mouth. The hungry, impatient but satisfied groan that’s reverberating in Dean’s ears again and twisting his chest into unrecognizable, shaken mess.

The one where he didn’t even have a moment to wonder what’s gonna happen now because Castiel didn’t bother to pretend he’s surprised with Dean’s sudden proclamation of devotion. The screech of Castiel’s chair as he stood up to devour and conquer.

The one where he bent Dean against the desk like a C-grade hardcore porn starlet and successfully made him into a shishkebab before taking the party to bed. Only because Dean squirmed too hard and it probably made it too inconvenient to properly savor. With that his own sobs, repeated thuds of his body against the solid wood. His nails scratching into it, finding no solace.

Dean looks away and goes to the bookshelves. Doesn’t really have it in him to check the most evidently wrong part of the room if he absolutely doesn’t have to. Doesn’t feel particularly guilty for it either. Any court aside of his Dad and Sam would have excused him, but hey, they’re not exactly here to judge and no, a coma doesn’t get a vote. And, actually, even if it did, Dean has at least eight votes since he’s the one remolded, chained and pregnant, so whatever bitchface Sam could hypothetically try to serve in lieu of an actual solid argument is simply overruled by default.

He’d expect “God” to have more books. More things. The very few shelves are scarce in belongings. Musty incunabula in languages he’s never fucking seen before. Books that aren’t much younger. Might as well be Voynich saga extensions, all of them. The only thing he can vaguely decipher is the meaning of some empty spots having less dust than the others. Other than that? No pig to poke here.

The desk on the other hand, the one he doesn’t wanna come near to, is ripe with things to look at. Possibly.

Dean’s legs feel far too weak and his chest begins to fall concave as he approaches. By the time he’s standing among the mess of papers, his jaw is already ringing from his teeth being shut too hard. His reward? Jack with a side of shit. Some of the pages are neatly written in Enochian. Some are in what he thinks is Sanskrit. Both accompanied by numbers that look like nothing to him in this setting. He’s able to read fucking neither of those.

His last shot is the one lonely scrap of a book nearby - doesn’t look old at all compared to everything else. So at least it surely cancels Sanskrit and Enochian out. Surely as well it does look like shit. Not only dog-eared, but both of its covers have been ripped off. Very evenly - Dean can see it from here before he moves to grab it and it tells him enough. Castiel had a thing with keeping things sharp, clean, and free from flaw - whether it was a demon-Bobby house, his punches, his great plan to reach ascension or his faith, whatever it would claw into at any given time. Weirdly everything but his fucking coat. That he now ditched. For a luciferesque suit that has to be a pain in the ass to iron. Dean wonders whose job is that. Maybe Nadya knows. Maybe the book knows.

Only the spine of it remains, touched by nothing else but time. Dean takes the book to inspect it.

 

**Hopelessness**

_M. E. P. Seligman_

 

This tells him nothing, so he opens.

Where his eyes landed, pages on both sides are blank aside of _unless you want to have a fun time, you shouldn’t be here, Dean. I’m more than happy to give it to you later._

“Hey, piss off, Voldemort,” Dean growls and randomly checks other pages only to find them all unprinted. Figures. “I’m not going.”

He throws the book away and doesn’t bother to care where it thuds. He looks down and sighs in an empty attempt to switch back from anger to focus. And then he sees it: just by the desk.

Small stains of blood. Easy to scratch off. Not old.

Did Castiel roughly fist fuck someone else in here when Dean was on a trip in the great plains of nowhere? It doesn’t look like some sorta punishment - those come with the nauseating sense of grandeur and the whole point would be for Dean to se—

A blow to the back of his head (ow), but there’s no Castiel in sight when he turns around, hissing in both annoyance and pain. Just the book again (oh, come on). Which must have fled at calculated optimal speed, just to bother the living shit out of Dean but not add to the mystery drops or to whoop him unconscious (amazing, thanks).

“No,” Dean says and it comes off just as bitchy as he wanted to but higher-pitched than he expected, if he’s honest.

“Dean, I don’t want to have to repeat myself. Everything else is much heavier than this book. Please offer yourself kindness.”

This, uh, this is a problem. Not the furniture, he handled worse before he became a soccer mom. Just the impossible to miss observation that Castiel’s voice resonated not around the office but directly inside of his head, exactly where it fucking shouldn’t.

“Yeah, well I said what I said,” Dean barks back, aims for sounding unaffected and misses. Tries again. “So quit crawling in my head, you cheap parasite and hit me with your best chair.” Okay, now it sounded better. Except for the part where he offered his head to a chair and Castiel can kinda make that suggestion a thing.

“A little busy,” Castiel comments nonchalantly the same frigging moment the cursed desk chair misses Dean by inches so fast he swears he could feel breeze in his hair and no, it didn’t feel all that refreshing. “Last warning, dove. Next stone hits the bird.”

“Best regards from my ass. Now whose blood is it, Donkey Kong.”

“Your ass will be severely put to work and mended with chilli peppers afterwards if you don’t march out of here on your own and never mention this again. Now move.”

How the fuck does he even know what peppers do.

“Sure thing, honey. In a jiffy. Just tell me whose blood is that, bitch!” Dean shouts so hard aliens probably heard.

And then he takes a step back. And another one. And another one.

“This is so sad,” Castiel says, forcing Dean backwards. “I really wanted you to enjoy some autonomy but no, you always have to howl and ruin everything for yourself. And then run crying towards the first soft shoulder you see,” he whines. “Tell me, Dean, what will you do when there’s no other shoulder left but mine?”

Bite it off, probably?

“Get out of my fucking body! Get out of my fucking head! Get out!”

“You chose your option, now pay the taxes.”

“Out!”

This one was so loud it was capable of interrupting any alien butt probing and have the large headed nerds hit floors with brooms to tone that shit down.

But if Castiel knows ufos are bothered, he clearly doesn’t give a shit.

“I’ll stop, next step is yours,” he says. “Take the right dire—”

Silence. Absolute, deafening silence. Seconds pass and Dean stands, counting. Three, four, five - did someone finally fucking kill him or?? - seven, eight, nin—

 

Wings.

 

Dean doesn’t know how that’s possible, but to him they sound pissed. He’s getting really good at this. Like reading his own father’s minute movements and smallest sounds of the things his merciless hands touched before they would start to speak in the ancient tongues of violence. Maybe better. Maybe this time around he learns faster.

Not exactly what he’d be looking for in a husband if he wanted one.

“Dean.” Soft but with a buried edge to it, fake calm just like the sea before it gets shit done. “What was that?” But most of all, it demands attention. Like five seconds ago.

Dean turns around again, mostly to give a face out of habit than anything else. And he now thinks he’s gonna have to take the whole pristine clean thing back. The white suit is ruined with blood, Castiel’s hands are those of a pre-antisepsis times midwife and even his face isn’t all that clean. But the blood compliments the neurotic thing in his eyes very nicely.

“What the fuck is this?!” Dean’s mouth counters as he points at the carnage before his mind can even follow.

Castiel briefly looks down at his hands and apparently doesn’t find anything wrong with them.

“Pest control,” he answers, clipped. “Still waiting for the answer to my question.”

Like, the one Dean genuinely doesn’t know the answer to.

“I don’t know, you tell me. Maybe you finally ran out of minutes.”

Castiel’s face blooms with impatience to that. “You really don’t want to fuck with me on this one, Dean,” he says matter-of-factly as he makes a beckoning gesture and Dean’s body just swoops into his grip like a battery-powered sack of potatoes. His hand on Dean’s neck is sticky and at least three shades too firm for a painless secure hold. “What did you do and who helped you?”

“Are you trying to be the bad cop or the good cop today?”

“Dean,” Castiel snarls and readjusts his grip - the answer to Dean’s question is: neither. Castiel is trying to make mashed potatoes today.

“You glitched and got cut off. I’m not your fucking IT guy, asshole,” Dean groans.

“Okay.”

That’s the sharpest, most menacing okay he’s ever gotten right after the one Lisa would give him when he would really get to her nerves sometimes. And it includes the additional context of Castiel wiping the other bloody hand over his pants as he said it.

Except that in her case that was it. For Castiel it means he’s just getting started.

Namely by shoving the still filthy knuckles of his fist up Dean’s mouth. “Don’t worry if you bite,” Castiel coos. “This is going to sting, baby.”

Dean already bites at: 1) germs, 2) “baby” and 3) the hand from his neck going flat on his head, raw light slowly beginning to flow out of it--

Just like that the burst of fire in his brain really makes his jaws snap hard enough for him to feel Castiel’s bones underneath his teeth but his mind is too occupied with the fucking tornado to revel in it.

And then it’s gone and Dean’s pretty sure he has been at least partially turned inside out, left to dry out like laundry. Same hand - now not just bloodied but bleeding - goes to Dean’s forehead, makes the dull throbbing ebb away into static, into nothing. Fingers rub his temple, the palm that was just melting his brain switch to petting his head. Blue, ireless eyes dig into his face like into a grave; all soft, all sad.

“I believe you, Dean.”

All forgiving.

Dean’s mouth slowly cracks into a bitter grimace as he backs away in disgust. “You drove right into my head to check it. Has nothing to do with believing me.”

Castiel doesn’t let go entirely, only allows an arm’s length of a rift. Keeps his palm an unrealistically heavy weight on Dean’s shoulder.

“What were you looking for, Dean?” he asks softly, near whispers. “It’s not your job to solve Bobby’s puzzles anymore. Nothing you saw would even help those.”

“Blood in your micro Vatican isn’t Bobby’s puzzle. It’s mine,” Dean demands.

“You think I killed someone here and haven’t cleaned up?”

“You want me to believe that you - God - got a fucking papercut or some shit?!”

“Look at me, Dean.” Castiel sighs. “This is how it looks when I don’t clean up,” he points out and it just messes with Dean’s stomach in seven different ways - the way how he says it like it’s nothing. “And I always clean up.” He lets go, finally. Mojos the wounds from his fingers, all the blood off his shit suit, the only testimony of some unknown slaughter, away. Too bad it soaks into Dean’s bones to haunt him instead of being erased as Castiel wants it to be. “Unless I’m interrupted,” he adds pointedly. “I was healing in here. It’s a big house with lots of work to do. Accidents happen. And I tend to what’s mine.”

Dean’s not buying.

“I’m not buying.”

Castiel offers him a patronising smile as a consolation prize to that refund. “I don’t really need you to. Anything else itching you that I have to scratch?”

“The notes. Enochian I get. Sanskrit, man?”

“Well, have you ever learned Sanskrit?” Castiel asks to which Dean approaches with the universal frown for _is being a fucking moron the reason why you’re asking? Course I haven’t learned Sanskrit, I was busy having sex with women_. “Then that’s why it’s in Sanskrit. Just orders and construction sites, Dean.”

“Doesn’t sound reassuring coming from your mouth.”

Especially if it’s true.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see them in the right time. It isn’t yet,” Castiel informs casually, calmly walking towards Dean again, just following until Dean is out of shit to throw or move around, out of free space and out of corners away from the door. Then Castiel collects, like Dean’s some fucking runt of the litter, no matter how feisty. Closes the door and puts Dean down. “Pick some other room for the evening fun,” he comments, with more lustful gravel than it was called for, and for same old record - it was uncalled for as whole.

“Your grave,” Dean offers dryly.

With boner most likely killed, Castiel shakes his head at him in disappointment. Unfortunately, in exchange his gaze hardens. “Oh, and Dean,” which is already great because the bitchful _ohand_ is his least favorite word ever since it’s literally punctuation for a problem, no exceptions noted, “next time I find you here without my approval, I won’t be interrupting my work to babysit you and personally walk you out. The poor, innocent people you’re constantly so sorry for will come to get you. And they won’t leave you be with your scavenger hunt until you either mutilate them enough that they physically can’t or just leave. Of course I won’t later heal them on your behalf since that turned out to be such a problem to you,” he tells Dean, needles and venom in his last words.

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, mainly out of habit cause he’s already searching for the yellow brick road to plan B-land.

“I will, so you better be ready and willing.”

One final glare and whoosh, fucker’s gone.

At least Dean hopes so.

_Daddy is not here, Mommy! He’s where’s the big tree with an eye!_

Dean has…. No fucking clue… where that is.

“Did you break the connection? Was that you?” he whispers.

_I helped, Mommy._

“Good kid. Keep doing that.”

Dean has the plan. Sorta. Soccer moms make do.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

Standing behind the office door like this is not only absolutely futile. It’s also unnerving and dumb. Dean has no idea how long it will take Castiel to handle cleanup in aisle dead people, so he might as well use whatever time he has to do a few idiotic things that could come in handy in the long run. Or not. Something to do, one way or another. It’s not like he as fucktons of better things to get himself busy with.

He returns to the fugly kitchen, which now bears absolutely no sign of what happened in it not that long ago. It’s beautifully clean, like freshly unwrapped from a gift box. Shows how little Castiel really knows about humans. No kitchen is homely if it doesn’t look like there’s people that actually ever use it.

Dean tries the drawers, one by one, and then the cupboards. He doesn’t find a single thing he could use. It’s one thing to wonder _oh, hey, if I was a normal person, where would I keep a pair of scissors and a sewing kit?_ But in this case it wouldn’t be the right question. Where would God keep those in his holy fake shit kitchen? Dean digs more and runs out of options. He has his answer, though: away from Dean, probably in the same mysterious spot where even the butter knives are. Looks like he’s banned all the way on those, huh.

Okay, fuck that.

Back to his bathroom. There’s no way Castiel can be this thorough.

****

Except that he is, the fucker.

There are still the common bathrooms, right? Somewhere. No biggie, he’ll find them. Second floor, in theory “theirs”, but in reality fucking Castiel's, since Dean just can't relate, has: the main bedroom (stupid), his bathroom (useless), hall (empty), the office (banned). Ground's got Sammy's room (sad), the fake kitchen (stupid, useless), real kitchen (closed. banned?), dining room (banned, very banned), living room (who cares), the porch (banned since he doesn’t even know how many days, which is sad, useless and stupid).

Open house Dean’s fucking ass.

As far as he vaguely remembers, first floor looks like a hotel floor with rows of rooms and that has to be where the other people live. Then there’s the attic and Dean already knows it only has old hadesy pie, a half-empty can and stale coffee now. If there is a basement, he's banned on that as well. Because he can't get out. Of the house. Because this is his peace-slash-freedom. Or maybe Castiel just really doesn't like Dean messing with his feelings in basements and wants to make sure it never happens again.

First floor it is, then.

***

First floor feels bad. Doesn’t feel right for him to be here. It’s like an additional violation of people’s basic rights (those that they still even have, at least). This is a private, sacred space and he - the cause of it all - is too filthy to intrude it. Shame almost breaks his resolve. Almost.

Quick and quiet, he makes it to the only pair of doors that are at the end of the hall, not on its sides. It’s where he would put the bathrooms, but fuck only knows if Castiel thinks alike.

As he opens the door, it turns out that Castiel in fact does, but Dean’s not gonna lie, that’s hardly any consolation. On a particularly nonsensical and abstract level, it’s actually kinda insulting? Like, what does that mean - if, in theory, he and Cas... _tiel_ ever were to have a house together, would they want it to look the same way? The thought wants to roll inside his head, explore scenarios down to the details of potted plants and where to put them, but he kills it, merciless and fast. Why the fuck did he even have it in the first place? It’s not like the train has long left the station. It never really existed. Why does he keep forgetting?! Stupid, stupid Dean.

So, stupid Dean refocuses on the task at hand and makes his way through the cabinet. Really tries to ignore the scarce personal items there because they make him wanna cry and he knows that if he starts, he won’t be able to stop. Someone here likes purple. Someone likes raspberry soap. Someone else chooses lavender. Someone needs “men” written on literally everything, and has dandruff. Someone has band-aids with dinosaurs. A chipped toothbrush mug that says “I love my mom”. Jesus Christ, he can’t do this, he can’t be here. He should go. He should die. He stops rummaging to get a hold on his breathing and unsurprisingly blurry vision.

Dean gives himself a moment and goes on. This time his hands are shaking. Dental floss, but useless without a needle, thanks. Hairbrushes. More soap. Sponges. A bath bomb. A bath bomb? Good to know at least one person is having fun? Tiny, little clam-shaped box. What do you have, shiny clam thing? Magpie brain says let’s find the fuck out.

Ohhhhh, this is familiar. For two reasons. Dean hates both and isn’t sure which one more at the moment. It’s a small manicure kit. He remembers the file too well. He’d love to throw this fucking thing directly into the biggest available fire, but, just his luck, there’s none. Still, what is at least available, is a really microscopic pair of scissors.

He asked Lisa about those in a store, once. For some reason it was the funniest thing he’d seen that day (but maybe he still was just yesterday’s drunk, hard to tell). And Lis being Lis, after explaining these aren’t baby scissors or even gnome scissors, very quickly passed the mental journey from staring at him like he’s an idiot with six eyes to just kind of accepting and embracing it.

And she bought him the scissors. Told him she wanted to make sure her gnome was always well-armed.

They’re still in his car, somewhere. In Bobby’s scrap yard maybe. God, he loves her so much. He hates God’s scissors just as much right now, but he hides them in his sleeve. He’s Rambo gnome, and he’s armed in hurting.

Dean carefully puts everything else back as he first found it and closes the cabinet. He evacuates his sorry thief gnome ass from the floor he’s not worth of being on and hides away in the master bedroom. Unease is twisting his guts because he knows he ain’t done yet and now is the time for the shittiest part of his idea. And it has a solid 97 percent chance of backfiring directly into his face, so there’s that.

Sadly, he's perfectly aware that nobody here is gonna give him anything unless the boss clearly allows it, so it’s more efficient to just skip these steps and speak with the authority himself. Formally praying to Cas was always kinda awkward. But formally praying to Castiel? To get his benevolent attention? How does that even work? Dean’s got no clue how’s that supposed to look. So he wings it.

“Baby daddy, who art in not here, halloween be thy name?” Is this attention getting enough? No? Okay. “Thy cockdom come. Thy will be d--” umb “--one?” Yeah, okay, he isn’t even sure what’s supposed to come next. “Forgive me my trespass, but give me a thing…? Hello…? Hel--”

Rustle of wings. Here’s Johnny. With his bloodied berserk suit, sans the axe.

And by that Dean means Castiel. And by Castiel Dean also means Castiel’s face which, aside of being home to more caked blood than the last time Dean saw him, seems to be going through a journey similar to Lisa’s, but slower, still hesitating about the embracing part.

“I forgive you,” he croaks, barely holding his shit together, whatever the fuck it is that he’s close to exploding with. “Were you... led into a stroke, Dean?” Stupid asshole is trying not to laugh. Asshole.

“Nahhhh,” Dean waves off, trying for, well, sounding as non hostile as he can humanly fakely get. Should get an Emmy for that. Just for his nah. He deserved it.

“So,” Castiel starts with a bit less strain in his voice, “what is this thing you want…” Dean can fucking see he’s trying so hard not to say baby daddy right now, “...me to give you?” Spectacular success. This is the first time ever Castiel earns a decency point. “Do you want me to shower first? Or do you want to join me?”

And just like that, he loses two. Now he’s at -5661 decency points. Coulda been -5659. Coulda been so beautiful.

How… how is Dean supposed to say NO without pissing him off? Huh.

“Nahh,” he takes the same route again. Worked well last time. This time he waves a wee bit too hard and the goddamn baby gnome scissors fall outta his sleeve. Fuck. See, that's why visual drama is bad.

Castiel stares at the poor, lousy scissors, and so does Dean. “I need a stapler,” he says in a remarkably bad attempt at creating distraction.

At the same time he’s extremely busy pretending the scissors do not exist. While he’s still staring directly at them.

“A stapler?” Castiel asks the scissors probably, judging from what his eyes are focused on at the moment.

“Yeah,” Dean tells the scissors because he’s still not looking up at Castiel. “Big stapler.”

“What for? Do your scissors need a friend?”

“No, I’m gonna build a helicopter and fly away forever. You got no idea what motel cable TV MacGyver could teach a kid like me,” Dean ultra deadpans. “Come on, man. Both of us know whatever the fuck I need micro scissors and a stapler for isn’t going to be a threat to your eternal kingdom. I’ll put it away nicely when I’m done, I promise. Scissors too.”

“You do realize that my worry comes from a place of great respect for your ingenuity, right?”

“Pretty please, though.” Absolutely non-affecting, it seems. Okay steppin it up. Doe eyes, lashes, lashes. Nada. Rude. This ain't over. Dean licks his lips and mentally works on his voice until he figures out the most throaty, dick-ride-enjoying note he's capable of hitting. “...Baby daddy.”

Castiel snorts a little but collects himself with Nadya’s grace. Still makes sure to roll his eyes on his way back to nonchalant grandeur.

“Alright. Assuming I do give you that stapler,” he begins, serious.

“Yeah,” Dean cuts in just to make sure this won’t end up as a monologue.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Make a Gucci bag,” Dean offers dryly.

“For…?”

“Gucci things.”

“Dean,” Castiel whines, impatient and bordering on despaired.

“I have nowhere to keep my things, man! I wanna make a satchel. I wouldn’t dare ask you for something as dangerous as a needle and a thread. I mean, what if I garrote you or garrote me, right? What if I stuff my fun time holes with needles? That would suck, no?”

“Dean, what things?” Castiel butts in the first available moment, presumably to stop the scenarios from flowing.

Which they would be, because Dean was working on next ones just now. He guesses the world will never know.

“Jesus, dude. Precious memorabilia,” he cuts to the chase. “You know I got no guns, no knives,” Dean bends to pick up and formally acknowledge the scissors and wonders if enough, if any, of his boobs are showing. “Just this.”

Both of them regard the scissors with pity.

“Fine, Dean. The stapler will be waiting for you in the kitchen,” Castiel agrees because baby daddies are dumb, dumb sonsovbitches. “When you’re finished, put it back and wear the satchel for me.”

“Okay,” Dean offers amenably.

What he doesn’t expect is Castiel making his way into his space and crowding him against the bed. “Just the satchel, dove.” He smiles fuglily. Dean goes rigid, but he contains his disgust. If Castiel notices it, he doesn’t grace it with much attention. Instead, he chooses to pet Dean’s face with his knuckles. Blessed by holy miracle of endless patience, Dean chooses not to bite.

“Fucking hurts the baby,” he blurts out hopelessly since it’s the only thing his brain is willing to help him with right now.

Castiel is taken aback for a moment, but most likely with how few brain cells Dean has left, not his issue. At least his expression suggests that.

“You know, originally I wanted the evening to go more along your human standards of wooing as you call it. Nice, relaxing, enticing. And affectionate, since this you need the most, especially now. But, if this is your biggest concern, I know how to fuck so it won’t hurt the baby, Dean,” he explains steadily and tiredly, as if Dean is a moron.

“Awesome,” Dean says with a sigh.

Great, now he not only has to make a goddamn bag, he also needs it to be the size of a bed sheet. Dumb, dumb, ugly, horny son of a bitch.

“I’m not saying it has to be today. Just… go do your work, Dean. I need to go do mine.”

With that, he places a kiss on Dean’s cheek, awful but brief, almost weightless, and Dean closes his eyes. Maybe out of habit, maybe it’s just something his body does, maybe out of sadness. Only the sound of wings lets Dean know Castiel’s gone, probably back on his bloodshed tournee.

Dean releases the strain he’s been holding, but his body goes numb instead of feeling relaxed. “Fucking hurts me!” he yells to nobody in particular as he kicks the poor stool by the dressing table.

And then he puts it back, beholds his own pissed off face in the mirror, while he’s at it. And then he has another excellent idea.

*****

This was a terrible, terrible idea. Also, it provided an answer to the never really considered question of why Sam repeatedly chooses to keep his mop clown big instead of handing its fate to Dean, who would be more than happy to civilize it once and for all.

Or maybe shoulder-length hair should never be pacified with gnome scissors. Who knows. Point is, in the last half an hour or so, Dean fucked up not only much more than he hoped to, but even more than he thought he'd be capable of up-fucking.

So.

Now he's back on floor one, guided by desperation and a weak conclusion that the little clam devil most likely belongs to Nadya. And this is where his intuition runs dry and where improvisation begins.

“Nad!” He barks from the hall. Maybe the rest of the poor losers will be too chicken-shit to check what's wailing outside in foreign tongue. “Nad! NA--!”

Third door on the left cracks open, revealing first a strand of hair and half of Nadya's head, then, upon locating and recognizing her target, the rest. Her expression slides from terrified, through relieved, and stops at station angry and it looks like it feels very comfortable there.

But the only thing that gets Dean's attention is the observation that she's wearing pants.

... Pants?

She rushes towards him and drags him into the room by his sleeve and he goes with zero fight because the only thing he's thinking about is pants. And for once, it isn't about taking them off somebody.

“Don't make ruckus!” She scolds as she quietly closes the door behind them. Dean stares at her bland white shirt and equally bland white PANTS, which as whole make her look like she's wearing scrubs. In a different world it would never be a look he'd actually envy. In this one he does. He guesses that says a lot about the current state of the universe.

“You get to wear pants?”

Nadya looks down at herself, confused. Maybe second guessing if she's really wearing pants after all. Yeah, Nad. You are. How come? This is mean.

“Thank be to holy Mary he let you out of the office, but what he must have done to your head,” she mutters in disbelief, clicking her tongue in the _oh no yet another problem for me_ way. “Are you dizzy? Concussed? You talk nonsense, Dean. And you look bad.”

“Let me out? He kicked me outta the office for snoopin around in it! I barely managed ten minutes! I know what I'm about!” He insists (and by the way it's pants). The look she gives him is sour and sad, but she says nothing. Thing is, Dean is slightly less stupid than he currently looks, and no matter what Crowley probably thinks at the moment, he still has eyes. “Please, just this once, spill it.”

“Dean,” she begs. “I can't, I don't... I have no answer that could help you.”

He’ll take useless ones too in this economy.

“The lunch,” he says flatly. “I passed out, right?”

“I don't know. I heard others say there was shouting, noise. Then both of you were away. We were ordered to not interfere until otherwise told. Nobody on the master floor.”

The _what_ floor now?

Okay, no. One burning pile of crap at a time. One.

“So none of you were in the office in, I donno, last few days?”

“His office? Are you insane? We were never there, Dean. We've spent a long time down here, doing our best to be invisible.”

Healing people, yeah shit.

“So when I think I saw you just a couple hours back, my timing is off how much?”

Nadya doesn't answer that. Well, now he can make an educated guess on whose blood he found back there. Weirdly it's relieving (at least it's his) and disappointing at the same time (God doesn't bother to try to tend to what's his after all. Was he again stupid enough to expect better?).

“Is he here now?” She asks instead.

“No. If he was here, I would not be here because he would be upstairs, in my throat, dick first.”

Nadya, as always, is amazing at not giving a single visible shit.

“I haven't seen you in a long time, Dean.” she whispers. “I thought you were dead this time,” she adds even quieter. “You look like you dug yourself out of your grave,” she points at the carnage on his head and his tired, sunken face not so subtly.

“Oh, that. No, not this time. I had a fall out with gnome scissors. I need bigger scissors.”

Nadya's face looks like she's failing to process all the revelations.

“I can't give you scissors,” so she addresses just the one which remotely makes sense to her. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Pants.

Wait no, she means before that.

“As I said, adult fun is scheduled for the night. Headache doesn't work. Figured no girly locks would be dissuading. Until it grows back or something.”

“You look very dissuading right now, good job. But if I let you walk like that, he will hang half the house.”

“Yeah, I had the same conclusion.”

Okay, that's a lie, kind of. At first Dean concluded that not only this actually might work, but also if he screws it up, he gets a shot at bigger scissors. For not haircutting purposes. So there’s a win for him either way. But yeah, seeing the result of his adventure? There's really a lot at stake now and the sad part is that his ass is the last one to permanently hang for this. So zero points for Dean. Again. This sport sucks.

“You wait here,” Nadya instructs. “I need tools, so I'll have to speak with the asshole,” she says with disgust.

“Careful, Nad, you're talking about my husband,” Dean snorts.

Nadya squints like she doesn't get the joke. Or being called Nad, still.

“I'm not talking about God,” she clarifies, which has to mean there's more than one resident asshole in this house and frankly? That's beyond Dean's capacity to comprehend right now. “I'm talking about Jeremy,” she adds, making sure Dean gets the _piece of shit_ vibe loud and clear.

“Who the fuck is Jeremy?” And another question, unasked, but present in his head nonetheless: _why do we have a Jeremy?_

“He is shit,” Nadya says it like that encompasses all the knowledge Dean should currently have. “You haven't met him. Make it stay that way.”

“You don't gotta worry about me, I can take care of mine self, mine holy God, mine holy child, and of Jeremies who are shit.”

“This house really doesn't need two jealous, stupid dogs barking at each other over one stupid bone. I can't contain you both.”

Jealous? Like what? Is mysterious Jeremy also banned on pants but covets them?

“I don't need to be conta--”

“And if you won't be contained, Castiel will come here and contain us all for good!” she cuts Dean off before he can whine more, which is a good call because yeah, he would. “Now sit!”

That was menacing as fuck, so he sits on the bed, and stares at the door frame for a while after she disappears in the hall, leaving the door hanging open. He looks around uncomfortably, but doesn’t find many things to stick his eyes to. Maybe except of the small radio on the window pane. Actually, this is the only thing. Dean’s fairly sure the closet and a nightstand don’t count. The little table with a single chair has nothing on it. And yet, it feels invasive.

But…

Could there be any chance this closet has a pair of pants around Dean’s size? Like, whatever the fuck it is because yeah, Dean’s clearly noticed every time he’s plugged back in he’s, uh, kinda tiny bit bigger, even though he can’t exactly say he looks super pregnant-pregnant. He’s somewhere between _I’m perfectly fine just bloated after binge eating whole Christmas and feeling like rocking some super loose sweaters_ and _Jesus fuck, I carry an alien egg_ when naked. It would be real helpful to know how far along he is. But hey. Priorities. Closet. Pants. ASAP.

Dean rushes to open the closet and, for the time being, ignores stealthiness as a concept and messily runs his hands and eyes through layers of white-ish crap until he hits jackpot on the first vaguely pant-shaped thing. Good enough. Wasting no time, he gathers his dumb dress up and attempts to put his finding on, and on his way discovers the following:

One: apparently you can forget how to put pants on while standing without tripping if you’ve lived pantless long enough.

Two: either Nadya’s legs are considerably slimmer than he thought or God (this one here specifically) had blessed him with big thighs, because… Three: he can’t pull them all the way up and Four - staring at his half-clad legs in undiluted misery he notices these slightly poking out things where he expected to find pockets? Like, why even bothe--

“JEREMEE, YOU WANT DEATH?! TAKE THINK!”

Okay, Five: was Nadya capable of screaming bloody murder all along? And Six - why is her english suddenly so slav-mangled right now? Inevitably, Seven: doth Jeremy want death?

“I’M NOT GONNA SWOOP IN EVERYTIME THE COMA SLUT DEFIES CASTIEL AND MAKES THINGS GO TO HELL FOR NO REASON! LET HER DO THE EXPLAINING IF SHE’S SO PRECIOUS! GO TELL HER THAT!”

Dean takes that as a yes.

“IDIOT SMALL HORSE! DEAN SPEAK, WE PAY! MACHINE, JEREMEE. OR CASTIEL HEAR YOU PROBLEM!”

Jeremy apparently is fluent in threats enough to shut his bitch mouth and go for hopefully fruitful pulling and slamming of drawers instead of becoming Castiel’s problem. Much quieter, Dean hears them exchange few more words and while he can’t really tell what those are, their voices make at least the hostility clear, as it transcends the bounds of both decibels and grammar. Nadya slams Jeremy’s door so hard on her way out Dean’s worried it broke some glass in his brain.

Worse yet, she catches him in flagranti with her pants half way up his ass. And she clearly looks like that breaks some glass in her head in turn.

“What the fuck is this, Dean?” she asks, pointing her clipper-bearing hand at the general vicinity of Dean’s possibly stuck butt.

Since Dean doesn’t know how to explain it, he deflects.

“What the fuck is this, Nad?” he whines, pulling at the not-pockets.

“Pockets,” she answers dryly, less than impressed with his attempt.

“These are not pockets,” he insists and tries to figure out how to get unstuck and take these off without gaining any more attention than he already has. “That’s an M&M’s stash.”

“Welcome to womanhood, Dean.”

“What, is the pocket hoax some kind of rite of passage?” he huffs.

“Once you’re old enough to carry a purse? Why not. It’s like this big siren that screams I have a purse, purses are for women, so now I’m a woman and you can fuck me.”

“What,” Dean tries for something smart but gives up entirely, much more confused than he wants to show.

“You’re a man, you don’t see that because it isn’t supposed to affect your life. You just take sick things as normal. All of you do,” Nadya comments in a blasě tone, in the same way you talk about a mild inconvenience you’re beyond being used to. “You specifically, take the pants off and fold everything back while I get things ready.”

“Okay,” Dean gives up and with a substantial amount of anger and determination, he shimmies his legs out of confinement and gets onto re-folding.

Nadya on her end plugs in the electric clipper, fishes out a small mirror out of her bed stand drawer and places it on the table. Then does one big, solid, noticeable nothing aside of just looking at her make do work space.

“Am I going to need a brush for this?” she asks eventually. “I’ve never cut hair before, myself. And I never had mine short,” she admits.

Dean stops what he’s doing and turns to face her. “Alright, so we’re going no scissors, just clipper, yeah? Just get me a comb and I’ll salvage something.”

Nadya nods and leaves again, hopefully not looking for Jeremy’s assistance this time. Dean keeps on folding and putting clothes away and stares blankly at his finished work until she comes back.

With a hairbrush. Which, okay. Dean guesses she was being super honest about the not ever trimming her own hair thing. He’s not gonna comment that. At the moment she’s the one that’s actually armed.

“You fold very nicely,” she offers, assessing Dean’s… improvement to her wardrobe because to be honest, its organisation was beneath criticism. And yeah, he’s letting that slide, too. “I would have hired you, back in the day,” she adds with a hint of good humor in her voice and, since it’s so rare, Dean can’t help but be a loser and absolutely relish in it.

“For clothes folding?” he prods with a laugh.

“Depends,” Nadya shrugs and points at the chair. “What else can you do? Don’t say fuck. Everyone can fuck and I don’t pay for sex.”

“Oh, honey, and I’m way too old for turning tricks. More of a picky pro bono kinda guy and just for the record, I’d make it worth your while,” he smirks as he takes the seat. “If you ever want a raincheck on that, that is.”

“No.”

“Higher standard, okay, I get it. But! I can cook good if I do say so myself and I ain’t crap in keeping stuff in order. Was your place all that kind of disaster or just your closet here because you don’t give a shit? Which I can also get, no lie. Here sucks.”

“I had a cleaning lady come twice a week. A wardrobe. I’m a fish out of water, here.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask some stupid questions?”

“You already, um, what’s your saying? Are on a roll?” She says and the last part comes out heavily accentuated again.

“How’d you just do that? Do you have an English on and off switch? Were you an actress or something? That why you were so loaded?”

“Idiot,” she huffs. “You have a Russian switch, kind of. More of a codec? Ask your husband.”

Why is surprise something he’s still capable of feeling? Like, right now? With this motherfucking deep, deep violation cherry on top? Fuck damn it.

“Oh, but if I asked for laser vision or bigger tits I bet he woulda said no,” Dean groans.

“With one of these things I could have financially helped if you’re that into back pains.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. We’re talking fake boobs rich or laser vision rich?”

“There’s no such thing as laser vision, Dean.”

“Sounds evasive, Nad. What car were you driving?”

“Got a Lexus RX last year. Very nice brown. Still had that new car feel. I miss it,” she says with a pout.

“Oh, man. Did you really have to disappoint me with that hip SUV shit?”

“What?” she says defensively. “It’s a really good car!”

“You ain’t seen a good car, trust me.”

“That so? What were you driving before all of this?”

_I was driving the next Top Godel_ _nuts and that’s why we have all of this_ Dean wants to say, but doesn’t.

“‘67 Chevy Impala, a real family jewel. Even Mister God respected it, go and ask him.”

Nadya gives him a pitiful look again. “Yes, I definitely will,” she comments dryly and glances at the clipper with visible unease. “Is this charged enough to you?”

“No need to be stressed, Nad. We’re gonna do this together, okay? I’ll walk you through it, you learn a thing or two, and Castiel’s weird no sharp objects for Dean fetishes will remain unharmed.”

“Why is this even a problem, by the way? I’ve never seen him this paranoid about anything else, to be honest,” she muses. “Just… odd.”

“Not really,” Dean shrugs as he fiddles with getting the razor setting right. “Given enough time, I could easily kill and destroy everything in here that isn’t him and I’m fairly sure that given even more time I could run very, very far, just by having usable tools,” he comments casually and earns a frown from Nadya’s face. “Like bigger scissors or this clipper here.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

“Don’t worry, Nad. I’d get all of us the hell outta here, scissors blazin, and then we’d go to Vegas and build some tiny huts on the desert.”

Nadya huffs.

“I’m pretty sure Jeremy would stay.”

“Why would he do that?”

“There is only one thing you need to know about him,” she says, harder and colder than she’s ever been so far. “He volunteered to be here, Dean.”

Well, this is…… Dean is not, just not, unwrapping the meaning of this. Which he thinks he knows. Which is why he’s NOT addressing that at all, ever, let alone discussing it with Nadya. One thing is sure: it’s Jeremy hunting season.

He turns the clipper on and hands it to Nadya.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Since my health is really going crap, instead of writing one gigantor part for the next 6 years, I put it into parts, hence the change in number of chapters. Now that I think about it, everybody wins because it improves coherence of this installment and hey! I get to finally update, too!
> 
> 2\. It is physically possible to cut hair with too small scissors or/and with a hairbrush instead of a comb for support. It's possible to even do it with wallpaper cutting knife and a fork. Don't ask me how, this is cursed knowledge and you really don't wanna have it.
> 
> 3\. I am however super open to any other questions and chit-chats and srs discussions!!!
> 
> 4\. If you liked this piece, please comment and leave kudos! if you don't know what to say you can go with emotional keysmash and that too will touch me to the bone! 
> 
> 5\. If you did not like this piece, then i, op, accept constructive criticism.
> 
>  
> 
> 6\. love u & see u next time!!!!


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